Tender, succulent, melt-in-your-mouth.
I could sit and chew forever here,
pearly enamel blades on plum-red sinew.
It's hard not to grin
at the irony of my meal, a pie-chart steak
with its "50% off!"
garnishings and 100% perfection,
grade A beef
that pumps you with serotonin
the explosive feeling of acing
a math test.
It's fine dining like you've never seen before, folks.
You wouldn't put a dirty rag in your mouth, so why
would you settle for anything less than
the upper echelon of quality
But you don't deserve your grade.
It's not hard to see you've been cheated,
the only thing "perfect" about your score
is that you've been copying natural talent
like a sick parrot, tracing
striated muscle and cloning stem cells
in a cruel dissection.
I can't bear to watch the cassette,
to rewind and remind myself of when we discovered
we could play God,
mock Mother Nature
in our last supper.
Across the velvet floor, two women
no younger than thirty, clink their glasses
to the heartbeat of Mother’s womb
On closer inspection, their necks
are clotted with burgundy feathers, their lips
pulled back into sharp beaks.
In place of silver cutlery, scalpel-sharp
talons dig, and this
new scene unravels before me like a red carpet;
like a long, licking tongue. Vultures,
the women feast greedily
on the spoils of the land, sweet carrion
blotting their lipstick.
I lurch forward, choosing flight
when the primal urge to run,
or vomit, erupts.
I am aware of every bone pressing
under my flesh, every muscle
pulsating with heat. My lungs
prickle and buzz like a harmonica
I don't remember playing. But oh,
muscle memory will never leave,
once it tastes death.